


All Places Are Alike

by Mireille



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M, Zine: Diverse Doings 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-11-30
Updated: 1998-11-30
Packaged: 2019-03-23 06:36:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13781835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mireille/pseuds/Mireille
Summary: Before he disappears forever, Krycek decides to pay Mulder one last visit.





	All Places Are Alike

Cheap locks.

Incredibly cheap locks, he amended, as they gave way in less than a minute, even as clumsy as he was these days. For a paranoiac, Mulder was either way too damned trusting, or stupid, or both.

Krycek eased the door open and stepped inside, relocking the door behind him. He looked around the apartment, noting that not much had changed since the last time he had been there. Good. He hated surprises. The last time he'd been surprised, he'd woken up to discover a mob of Russian peasants sawing his arm off. He rubbed at his shoulder; if he ever got the time, he was going to have to get a better-fitting prosthesis. He hadn't thought it worth making a high priority, figuring he'd be dead before he got much use out of it.

There was a stack of mail next to Mulder's computer; idle curiosity compelled him to pick it up and rifle through it. The light bill, an oversized envelope proclaiming that " _FOX MULDER may have already won ten million dollars!_ ", a circular from a supermarket advertising a sale on ground beef and diapers--nothing that told him anything of any use. Krycek laid the mail back down. He debated the wisdom of booting up the computer; he'd already managed to hack Mulder's e-mail, and even if Mulder had his files protected, it shouldn't be that hard to read them as well.

But there was no real need to snoop. He had learned everything he wanted to from reading Mulder's e-mail, and besides, he wasn't here for information. At least, not that kind.

_So what am I here for?_

That was a good question, actually. He shouldn't have even come back to the States; it was too risky for him these days. What he needed to do was disappear-but here he was in Mulder's apartment, which wasn't exactly the same thing, despite the cobwebs in the corner that suggested that if he could hold perfectly still, he would go unnoticed for months on end

Well, he wasn't planning on staying long. Eastern Europe sounded promising; plenty of work for someone like him, especially with what he'd learned from his time with the militia. By the mere fact that he'd gotten back to D.C. in one piece, he'd proved--to himself, at least--that he could still handle the work. The only reason he wasn't there already was that--

_Well?_

Krycek had no secrets left to sell, no employers to send him after Mulder. This time, he had to disappear for real: the FBI was after him, the Consortium was after him, and the Russians weren't exactly welcoming him with open arms. It would be best if Alex Krycek ceased to exist, at least officially, before someone decided that the body should disappear along with the identity. But he couldn't resist the urge to fuck with Mulder's head one more time, just to prove that he still could.  _Fine, Alex. Whatever gets you through the night._

And tonight, he'd get on a plane for London, stop off and get Carstairs to scare up some new papers for him, then on to Malaga to see what Pacheco could put him in touch with. He'd be in a new life by the end of the week, a new identity in place, and Fox Mulder safely relegated to memory--something to be brought out late at night, perhaps, but at no other time. All the more reason to make their association as... memorable... as possible.

A sound from the hallway sent Krycek, gun in hand, into the bedroom, ducking into the closet as a further precaution. Mentally, he checked off each new sound as he heard it: door opening, door closing, answering machine messages being replayed, and, finally, the squeak of the couch springs and CNN on the TV. Mulder hadn't noticed he'd been here. This had to be Krycek's first lucky break in months.

_All right, Alex, time to go._

He had to stop thinking of himself as "Alex"; he didn't know what his new identity would be, but he sincerely doubted that would be his name. And it wasn't like that was the name he'd been born with, anyway. That identity was best left forgotten; it wasn't like anyone would miss it anyway, least of all him. But he'd been Alex Krycek for years--thanks to the Consortium, it had been a watertight cover identity, one that got him into Quantico--and he'd gotten used to it. He'd been Krycek when he and Mulder had been partners, when he'd managed to even make himself believe... and Mulder thought of him as Krycek, when he wasn't thinking of him as--what was it? Oh yes, an invertebrate scum-sucker. So for tonight, he'd be Krycek.

_Face it; you'd be Little Bo-Peep if that was what Mulder wanted._

_Well, yes_ , he agreed with himself,  _but that's beside the point_.

He slipped quietly out of the closet, across Mulder's bedroom. He paused just inside the door, listening for sounds of movement, then ventured into the hallway. Again, there was nothing but the drone of the news anchors and an occasional comment from Mulder--to himself, Krycek assumed, as there was no answering voice--so he aimed his gun in the direction of the couch and stepped out into the living room.

"Good evening, Agent Mulder," he said, before Mulder even had time to register his presence. "No, don't get up."

"You bastard."

Krycek shook his head. "Whatever happened to 'Hello, Alex, good to see you?' No, you'd never be able to shoot first, Mulder, so just hand your gun over like a good boy."

Mulder produced a gun and reluctantly held it out to Krycek. Krycek kicked the gun out of Mulder's easy reach; Mulder would have to get past him to get it. That was the best he could do, given that he had to keep his own weapon trained on Mulder, and his fine motor skills weren't what they used to be.

When it became obvious that Krycek wasn't about to shoot him, Mulder demanded, "What do you want?"

"What do any of us want, really?" Krycek responded. Amazing how flippant it was possible to be when you'd accepted the fact that you could die a messy death at any moment.

"If I want third-rate philosophy, I'll read  _The Celestine Prophecy_ , Krycek. What are you doing here?" Mulder was irritated, which meant that he was frowning, which meant that Krycek had to contend with the nearly overwhelming urge to bite at Mulder's lower lip. Human beings were not meant to have mouths like that; it simply wasn't fair.

"I came to see you."

"Yeah? Where do you want to drag me to this time? I really liked the Russian prison package tour; I'm recommending it to all my friends."

Krycek pulled the desk chair out, turned it around, and sat down. That way, he could steady his gun arm on the back of the chair. It made it easier to keep up the front that he had two working arms, and until Mulder was willing to be reasonable--or at least until he was sure Mulder didn't have another gun--Krycek didn't want to give him any more information than he had to...which was also why he didn't ask Mulder if he had any idea how sexy he was when he was being a smartass. "I wanted to talk to you."

"Why the hell would I want to sit here and listen to you lie to me?"

"Because tomorrow morning I'm going to disappear, and you probably won't have to listen to me ever again."

Mulder shrugged. "Rush hour can be hell; you might want to get an early start."

Krycek refused to let himself be distracted into bickering. "Look, Mulder, I know you're never going to believe that I didn't kill your father--"  _Not that it would make much difference if you did_.

Mulder gave him a crooked smile. "I'll tell you what. You let me arrest you, and if the jury finds you not guilty, I'll believe them. Deal?"

"Cut the shit, Mulder. Even if I were stupid enough to go for it, we both know that I'd never live to stand trial. Our mutual acquaintance doesn't like me very much at the moment."

"For once, he and I agree completely."

"For God's sake, Mulder, why can't you see we're on the same side in this? Do you really want the Earth to become an alien colony?"

"Why do you care? There'll always be rat holes for you to skulk in."

For a second, Krycek could taste the oil-and-aluminum of the alien as it erupted from his mouth, from his skin, from his eyes. "Because I had one of those fucking things inside me, Mulder. It hurt going in--"  _diamond knives ripping through his brain, reshaping it to something more comfortable for its new master--_  "it hurt even worse coming out--"  _the alien pouring forth from every cell of his body, not caring what it tore on its way out--_  "and it hurt the whole goddamned time it was in there. Not because it hated me, or because it wanted to hurt me, or because there was no other way. No, it hurt me because it never occurred to it that human beings feel pain, or that it would matter if we did."

"My heart bleeds for you." But Mulder's face had softened. Even the sickening memory of the pain was worth that.

"I still have contacts, you know."

"So?" That was one of the things he'd have liked about Mulder, if he let himself like anything about the man--he was rarely fazed by non-sequiturs.

"I can give you information. I'll tell you everything I know about the Consortium, about the aliens. Anything that'll help you bring them down." Nothing would ever bring them down; nothing he told Mulder would do any good. They were all doomed; the aliens were bound to win. But he didn't want to make it easy for them, and he did want Mulder to trust him, even just for these few hours. "Why can't you see that we're on the same side again?"  he repeated.

"We were never on the same side, in case you'd forgotten."

"Okay, so maybe this isn't the beginning of a beautiful friendship," he said dryly.

"That's got to be the understatement of the year."

He ignored Mulder and continued "But since I never aspired to starring in a remake of  _Casablanca_ \--"

Mulder interrupted him. "I ought to kill you."

"What good would it do?"

Mulder looked past him instead of meeting his eyes. "Do you want a list of all the people you've killed, or helped to kill? My father, Melissa... Scully..."

His voice had broken on the last word; no matter how much Krycek wanted to, he couldn't convince himself that Mulder had called Melissa Scully by her full name. "I followed you yesterday. Scully isn't dead."

"Not yet."

"That's true for all of us."

"Some of us sooner than others," Mulder said, still not looking at him.

"Is that a threat?"

"She's dying, asshole. She has cancer."

And if Krycek had been using even half his brain, he could have guessed that. He'd seen enough of the Consortium's confidential files; to know-all the "abductees" wound up riddled with it.

"I'm sorry," he said, meaning it to be a mechanical response, but damned if it wasn't true. He'd never liked Scully, and the feeling had been mutual, but he'd seen how hard Mulder had taken it when Scully was missing. This was going to tear him apart, and Krycek was surprisingly sorry about that.

 _Damn. I really hate surprises_.

"You helped them take her," Mulder growled, and the hatred flaring in his eyes made Krycek very glad that he had the gun.

"I didn't know!" Not then. Later, yes, but by then, it would have been too late.

"Are you really stupid enough to think I'd make the mistake of trusting you again?"

The word "again" burned through him, laser-sharp, and when he looked at Mulder, he saw the same pain there. Anger replaced the pain quickly: at Mulder for not having seen through him more quickly, at himself for being exactly the sort of lowlife Mulder said he was, at that goddamned chain-smoking fiend who'd brought him into this in the first place.

"Well, I came here for you to do  _something_  again," he said, forcing a sneer into his voice. "Trusting me's optional, though"

Shutters slammed down behind Mulder's hazel eyes. "You took my gun."

"Guess again, Mulder." His throat was dry, or was that something else that left his voice hoarse?

"Arresting you?"

"Think real hard," he suggested.

 Mulder closed his eyes; Krycek wondered what he was trying to avoid seeing. The things he didn't want to see only went away when his eyes were open.

_After he'd shot Augustus Cole, Mulder taking him back to that grotty apartment he'd had_

_back_ _then, pouring him a stiff drink and sitting him down on the couch._

_"Never had to shoot to kill before, huh." His voice sympathetic, his hand on Krycek's back._

_Krycek shook his head mutely, not trusting his voice with the lie. He'd knifed a man before his seventeenth birthday. What had him shaking like a scared kid was the fact that he'd killed Cole to save Mulder's life. Not to save his own, and not under orders. For Mulder._

_"I wish I could say it got easier."_

_And what had him shaking now was Mulder's hand, moving in gentle circles on his back...._

Mulder shrugged, a loose-limbed movement that Krycek drank in greedily. "If that's all you

want, you might as well go now."

_"If that's all you need, I ought to be going now."_

_"No!" Clinging to Mulder like he had clung to an outcropping of rock on that cliff in--where the hell had that cliff been? Somewhere boring and Southwestern, when he'd been going after that AWOL pilot the Consortium wanted eliminated; it didn't matter where exactly, he supposed. But then he'd been afraid of plunging to his death, and now--_

_And now he was afraid of Mulder leaving, and the thought set him trembling again._

_"Okay, then, what?" Mulder had said then, and Krycek had turned his head slightly, so that_ _their_ _faces were only millimeters apart, and kissed Mulder._   _Or Mulder had kissed him; he'd never been quite sure which. But it hadn't mattered then._

And he supposed it didn't matter now.

Mulder must have been thinking the same things Krycek had; anger warred with another, older fire in his eyes, and he gnawed at his lip as he thought.

Then, suddenly, Mulder got to his feet--a calculated risk, Krycek thought. He was gambling-- correctly, as it happened--that Krycek wanted him too much to kill him--and yanked Krycek out of the chair, taking the gun from him as he did so.

Krycek wondered how long it would be before Mulder realized that his hand hadn't closed around flesh and bone, but steel and plastic, and what he'd say when he did.  _Mulder's just weird_ _enough_ _that this could be a serious turn-on,_  he thought wryly.

At the moment, Krycek was rather glad that it was his prosthetic arm Mulder was gripping, because if Mulder's white knuckles were any indication, he'd have a bruise otherwise. Mulder's breath was warm against his cheek, and Krycek's brain struggled to remind his body that he was far more likely to get the shit beaten out of him than he was to get laid. So far, his brain didn't stand a chance.

Mulder jerked him away from the chair. As though from a great distance, Krycek watched him put the gun on the couch, saw his fingers curl into a fist. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes--not so much to shrink away from the blow as to prevent Mulder from seeing that it probably wasn't having the desired effect on Krycek. Not that he really liked being knocked around, but at least it meant Mulder was touching him.

And then Mulder let him go suddenly, with a slight shove that left Krycek off-balance. "Take off your jacket."

"I thought you weren't interested."

"The jacket, Krycek."

It wasn't as though he'd really thought that he'd be able to keep this from Mulder indefinitely, had he? "You'll have to let go of me first."

Mulder did, and Krycek awkwardly worked his way out of the leather jacket, still trying to keep his hand--his artificial, too-pale hand--out of sight. He couldn't risk Mulder seeing that weakness, not if Mulder was still going to claim he wanted to kill him.

"And the shirt."

At least undoing buttons wasn't that difficult to do with one hand. By now, he could almost do it with something approaching normal speed. Mulder simply stood back, watching him, with an expression that Krycek couldn't read.

It didn't matter. He pulled his prosthetic arm free of the sleeve, leaving his shirt the rest of the way on. He might have to get out of here in a hurry, and if he did, he didn't want to have to battle his shirt any longer than necessary. "Will that do?"

Mulder's hand came out to touch the prosthetic arm. "When?"

"Russia."

He didn't say anything.  Krycek had asked some questions before returning to the States; he was fairly sure Mulder knew about the Tunguska locals' efforts to avoid the "black cancer." He wouldn't require much from Krycek by way of explanation.

Mulder was still touching the artificial arm, fingers sliding over the lifeless surface, and Krycek damned him for not touching him where he had nerve endings. At last, he said, "And you went with this as a replacement?"

"It's the best I could get.  High-quality medical care requires ID, insurance, money--"

"You couldn't find some little old lady to bilk out of her life's savings?"

"I'm not a con man, Mulder."

"Professional pride?"

He shrugged. "Something like that. Anyway, I do have money, but I can't get at most of it. It's difficult to access your bank accounts when you're trying to avoid being found. And trust me, my former employer would have no problem locating me."

"No Swiss bank accounts? No stash hidden under the mattress?"

"Enough to get by. Not enough to get this dealt with in a manner that doesn't offend your aesthetic sensibilities. Can I put my shirt back on?" He sounded petulant, and he'd have been annoyed with himself if it didn't seem to be working on Mulder.

"All right."

He'd gotten pretty good at dressing himself, but buttons were still a bitch one-handed. He'd get them done up, though; it'd just take a while.

"Need some help?"

"No," he snarled, not wanting Mulder's pity. Then he saw a flash of disappointment in Mulder's expression and abruptly backpedaled. "Well--you might as well make yourself useful."

Mulder leaned down to fasten the bottom button on Krycek's already untucked white shirt, his fingers at approximately the same level as Krycek's cock, which was already beginning to stiffen, as though attempting to reach Mulder's hands. The side of Mulder's hand brushed against the front of Krycek's jeans, sending an almost electric jolt of arousal through him.

 _Shit, Alex, you really do have it bad, don't you?_  As if merely being here weren't enough proof of that.

Obliviously--whether intentionally or genuinely, Krycek wasn't sure--Mulder continued to button Krycek's shirt, the brief touches of his hand on Krycek's skin just casual enough to be completely innocent. Then he fastened the button just below the hollow of Krycek's throat and raised his head, and Krycek saw for certain that there was nothing at all innocent about Mulder at this particular moment.

"Well, I guess I'll be going, then," Krycek said, pretending to take a step backward, and was gratified that Mulder grabbed him roughly and held him in place.

"I don't think so," Mulder said, and kissed him.

There was no tenderness in the kiss, not like the first time, back on his secondhand couch in that cheap apartment This time, the kiss was accompanied by a heady mix of anger and good old- fashioned lust, the kind of kiss that led to mind-blowing sex but not messy emotional complications.

Which did absolutely nothing to explain why the touch of Mulder's lips to his was stirring up thoughts he'd buried long ago.

Fortunately for him, his feelings for Mulder--his stupid, weak, bound-to-get-him-killed feelings for Mulder--would never be able to last in the life he was going back to in the morning.   _And if they do_ , he thought,  _at least they won't be troubling me for long_.

Assuming, of course, that he even survived until morning.  That first time--the only time--he and Mulder had been partners. Mulder had thought they were on the same side. And now?

 _The enemy of my enemy is not necessarily my friend,_  he reminded himself.  He might be able to count on Mulder to help him against the Consortium, should his disappearing act not work out the way he had planned, but this--

Hell, it wasn't like he was asking Mulder to marry him.  The only question was whether he thought Mulder would really kill him--or turn him over to Skinner again. ( _If that bastard ever tells me to think warm thoughts again, I'll rip his balls off and make him eat them,_ Krycek thought reflexively.) And he didn't think so. Mulder had the advantage now, and he wasn't pressing it.

He was, on the other hand, pressed hungrily against Krycek's body, and Krycek was having difficulty keeping his mind on self-preservation when it was looking like Mulder just might fuck him after all.

"Still want me to go, Mulder?" he asked.

"No."

"Still want to kill me?"

"Shut up, Krycek."

Well, there was his answer. This wasn't any more life-threatening than walking down the street--in his case, probably a hell of a lot safer.  And tomorrow he'd be on his way to Bosnia, or Serbia, or some other place no one in the U.S. had ever heard of until the inhabitants made the nightly news for slaughtering one another, and all of this would just be a memory, hopefully a better one than most of the ones he'd made recently.

So why was he still shaking?

He was coming down off an adrenaline high, that was all. Mulder wasn't getting to him on any level beyond the physical, and any thoughts to the contrary could be dealt with later. Right now, the important thing was that Mulder was all but dragging him back into the bedroom.

For someone who didn't make a habit of sleeping in his bed--a sufficiently well-documented fact that it was in the dossier he'd been given when he was first partnered with Mulder--Mulder piled enough junk on it; there were some papers, a handful of books--the only one that didn't look like a psychology text or a collection of UFO anecdotes was a battered copy of  _The Odd Index_ ; he wondered if Mulder as planning on sending the author a list of corrections for the next edition--and a videotape box. Krycek sneaked a look at the title as Mulder tossed it onto the floor; nothing too exciting, just a garish cover proclaiming that it held  ** _"The TRUTH About Aliens Among Us!"_**  Somehow, Krycek doubted it.

But finally, the bed was cleared. Krycek didn't reach out to undress Mulder; his own lack of dexterity aside, that was something that lovers did for one another. It wasn't for them. Instead, he sat down on the edge of the bed and began taking off his shoes.

Mulder watched him for a moment, looking like he wanted to say something, but gave up and started unbuttoning his shirt. With two hands, he worked much more quickly than Krycek, and was completely naked just as Krycek had finished taking off his jeans. "I could give you a hand with that," he offered.

"No." But his hand stilled over the top button of his shirt. Mulder had already seen him without a shirt, seen--and not commented on--the ugly mess of scar tissue at his shoulder, so why should he care now? Because, he realized, it wasn't Mulder's reaction he was worried about. He just didn't want to see it, or think about it, or acknowledge it existed. He just wanted to let himself believe, for just a few minutes, that nothing had changed since the night after he'd shot Augustus Cole.

When he made no further move to take off his shirt, Mulder did reach out toward one of the buttons.

 "No," Krycek repeated. "Leave it on."

"But--"

 "Leave it on!" Krycek said, and Mulder, for what had to be the first time in his life, had the sense to leave well enough alone.

He reached out for Krycek again, this time using Krycek's shirtfront to pull him closer. Krycek brought his hand up to tangle in Mulder's hair before kissing him savagely. He bit Mulder's lower lip the way he'd wanted to do since he'd first met him, a nip almost hard enough to draw blood, and felt Mulder shiver.

Mulder's hands had almost instinctively settled in the small of Krycek's back as they first embraced, but they were now traveling downward to caress Krycek's ass.

But when Krycek broke the kiss for a moment to look at Mulder, he saw that Mulder's eyes were half-closed, and there was a faraway expression on his face. Not the dreamy haze of passion, either, but the look of someone who was trying to disconnect himself from reality. Mulder might as well not have been there at all, for all the conscious thought he was devoting to what they were doing.

So that was the way of it. Mulder couldn't control his body's response to Krycek, and had decided not to try, but he wasn't going to let it go any farther than that. Not that Krycek expected--or wanted--love and affection, but it would have been nice if Mulder had acknowledged his presence or given him some sign that it was Krycek he wanted Maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was just that Krycek would be in as much trouble as Mulder, though for different reasons, if he went to the FBI about this; Mulder could afford to take the risk of fucking him.

It didn't really matter what Mulder wanted, as long as fucking him was part of the equation. Of course not. Mulder was an example of the physical type that appealed to him. Everything else was irrelevant and always had been.

A fragment of a story he'd read in grade school filtered up through the roadblocks his psyche had installed against his past:  _I am the cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me._

Only, if he remembered correctly, the cat had wound up living in a nice, warm cave, as tamed as it was possible for a cat to be, and it was obvious that Krycek wouldn't share its fate.

Well, good. That had been the cat's biggest mistake. Better to stay on your own; it gave your enemies less of a hold on you.

And Krycek's only complaint about Mulder's behavior was that Mulder was wasting his valuable time with all this kissing.

He dragged Mulder over to the bed, pulling him down almost on top of him. Mulder's cock was velvet heat under his hand, and as he stroked it, it hardened further. Mulder had closed his eyes again. He made no move to touch Krycek; he seemed willing enough to allow Krycek to do what he wanted, but apparently, he wasn't going to reciprocate.

Fine. "Take what you can get" had always been his philosophy; it was as good a piece of advice here as ever.

With his thumb, he spread the drops of fluid that had leaked from the tip all along the length of Mulder's erection, giving him enough lubrication that his fingers slid easily along the shaft. He stroked Mulder's cock the way he did his own--exactly the way, he thought wryly, as he was usually thinking about Mulder when he did that, too.

Mulder's eyes were still shut, but his lips were parted, and a muscle at the side of his mouth twitched. Krycek frowned, trying to work out the logistics of his next move; he'd never done this with only one working arm before.

He repositioned himself on the bed so that his tongue could replace his band on Mulder's cock. He slid his hand down to cup Mulder's sac, rolling the balls between his fingers briefly before moving on again, this time to run a fingertip along Mulder's perineum, back and forth while his tongue traveled up and down Mulder's shaft.

 _You may not want to think about the fact that you're here with me, Mulder, but I'm going to make damned sure you can't ever forget it._  And in fact, Mulder was squirming helplessly, and Krycek could see the tension pulling at his face. He was trying not to lose control--whether out of fear of what Krycek would do, natural caution, or just obstinacy, Krycek didn't know--but it appeared to be becoming difficult.

_Good._

He continued his painstaking assault on Mulder's nerve endings, listening to Mulder's ragged breathing, until, finally, he got his moment of victory.

Mulder whimpered. Not moaned, or groaned, or gasped; a genuine, gratifying whimper that elicited a delighted smile from Krycek in spite of himself.  _Good boy, Mulder. And now, for my next trick--_

But Mulder, it seemed, had anticipated that. "Quit fucking around," he growled. He'd been about to, but the command changed his mind. He lingered a bit longer, not even using his tongue any more, while Mulder wriggled beneath him. Finally, though, he took pity on him. He took Mulder's cock into his mouth, drawing him as deeply in as he could. His own cock ached mercilessly, but he ignored it as best he could. He had Mulder right where he wanted him, which wasn't an everyday occurrence, and was therefore not to be put aside lightly. He could take care of himself later.

But the fact remained that he wanted more than this. If this memory had to last him for whatever remained of his life--the phrase "nasty, brutish, and short" wandered through his consciousness and then out again--then he wanted it to be worth the time he would undoubtedly spend playing and replaying it in his mind. He waited a bit longer, until Mulder's fingers were knotted around the blanket, his hips bucking almost beyond Krycek's ability to hold him down.

Then, judging that the time was right, he lifted his head He'd meant to look Mulder squarely in the eye, but Mulder's eyes were still closed. Still not willing to acknowledge Krycek's presence.  _Afraid of what I'd say to you if you did--or of what you'd say to me, Mulder? But you don't have to talk to give yourself away; I ought to know._  "I want you to fuck me, Mulder." His voice was hoarse, his words a lot louder than he'd expected them to be, but he'd said it. He rolled over onto his side, propping on his elbow to await Mulder's reaction.

Mulder lay still for a few seconds, while Krycek studied the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead and upper lip. In better circumstances, he would have wanted to taste the intoxicating combination of salt and musk and Fox Mulder--but these were not, by any stretch of the imagination, better circumstances.

Better than being locked in a silo with rats and roaches and memories of pain for company, perhaps, but still not all that good. Not even as good as watching Mulder play a surveillance tape over and over again, getting his first good look at him in deep concentration, and knowing that he was definitely, without a doubt, in over his head this time--because this time he knew just how much trouble he was really in.

Mulder's voice, when he spoke, was rusty as though from long disuse. "Turn over."

"You've got to be kidding. This arm--" he nodded toward the prosthetic-- "isn't all that steady. I get too into things, I lose my balance, and this turns into a game of Twister. Is that what you really want?"  _And I want to be able to look at you._

"That's the deal." Krycek wasn't going to waste any time determining whether Mulder's voice was really ice cold or merely very, very controlled. Either way, Krycek knew he wasn't going to win the argument.

"Give me a minute," he said in resignation. Giving Mulder a look that he hoped burned through his closed eyelids, he turned over, eventually getting himself balanced well enough that he thought he might be able to hold the position for longer than thirty seconds. The blanket was rough against the sensitive skin of his cock; he thought about Mulder pushing him down against that roughness, and desire twisted darkly in the pit of his stomach.  _Get it out of your system_ , he thought, and images of the alien pouring out of him flooded through his mind That was it: dark and uncontrollable and quite possibly fatal--but once it was over with, if he survived, he'd be himself again.

Thank God Mulder seemed to know what he was doing. He hadn't been sure; they hadn't done this, the one time before that they had done anything at all. But Krycek wouldn't have trusted himself to be able to give instructions to a nervous virgin. Hell, he was feeling a bit like one himself, and the last time he'd been entitled to that feeling had been over fifteen years ago.

The bed shifted as Mulder got up. Out of the corner of his eye, Krycek saw him going over to the nightstand and pulling something out of a drawer. Then Mulder's weight again settled onto the bed behind him, and a few moments later, Mulder's finger, coated in slick gel, slipped inside him. Trying to keep his cool, Krycek struggled not to thrust backward against Mulder's hand. He wouldn't beg. Mulder would get around to fucking him. Eventually. Or Krycek was going to shoot him in the head.

The finger left his body then. There were faintly wet sounds as Mulder presumably applied some of the lube to his cock, and Krycek bit his lip in anticipation. Then, with agonizing slowness, Mulder began to ease his way into Krycek's body.

 _Goddamn it, hurry up_ , he wanted to plead, but didn't. He was biting his lip so hard he tasted blood, but he wasn't going to say anything more to Mulder. Not when Mulder was inside him, his cock plunging deep into Krycek's flesh with a pleasure that stopped just short of pain. He realized suddenly that Mulder wasn't wearing a condom. Not that it mattered, for his sake, at least. His life expectancy could be measured in weeks anyway, and Mulder was probably the safest sex partner he'd had in years. But for Mulder's--

Then he thought about his former employers, and exactly how much most of them hated Mulder, and how close Mulder seemed to be getting to the truth, and he had to conclude that, most likely, Mulder wasn't long for this world either. So what did it matter?

That was the last semi-rational thought he was capable of for a while. Any part of the universe that wasn't actually in contact with his body became irrelevant; all that mattered was the heated friction of Mulder thrusting into him, the roughness of Mulder's blanket as he writhed against it, hovering just at the edge of pleasure but unable to make it over the brink.

His throat burned from his ragged breathing, and for some reason, his eyes felt as though there was sand in them. His right arm had started to ache from bearing most of his weight--he was afraid to rely too heavily on the prosthesis--and sweat was dripping into his eyes.

He couldn't remember ever feeling this close to happy. At least, not in the past twenty years or so.

With a strangled cry, Mulder thrust into him one last time. A second later, Krycek followed him into climax, grinding his hips against the mattress as he struggled against his unfortunate habit of blurting out emotional declarations while in the midst of orgasm. It had proved inconvenient in the past, particularly as he'd never meant them; this time he was afraid it would be nothing short of disastrous.

He was dimly aware that Mulder was now lying beside him on the bed; he collapsed gratefully into a heap, pins and needles shooting through his arm.

He was also slowly becoming aware that not all the wetness on his face was from sweat. Shit, he was  _crying_  now? He surreptitiously scrubbed at his eyes before Mulder noticed.

Too late. Mulder brushed a fingertip against his cheek, and Krycek shivered. "My arm was hurting," he said glibly. "Involuntary reaction. I--" He broke off. Mulder's default assumption was that Krycek was lying; he was never going to believe that.

But Mulder seemed willing to accept his explanation. He sat up, his back to Krycek.  _You are the cat who walks by himself,_ Krycek reminded himself,  _and--_ And all places were alike to him, because they were places where Mulder--if not hated, then profoundly disliked him. He'd thought he could get the dark bitter longing that things could be different out of his system this way, but he was keenly aware that he'd been wrong. He'd always been able to lie to other people with uncanny ease, but not himself.

"Can I use your bathroom?" Now there was a graceful subject change. But he ought to get cleaned up, and he couldn't look at Mulder any longer.

"Go ahead."

When he returned, Mulder was no longer in the bedroom. Krycek dressed quickly before going out to find him.

He was sprawled on the couch, flipping idly through TV channels. He didn't look up when Krycek came in.

"I'd better go," Krycek said.

"Don't let me keep you."

Krycek picked up his jacket and put it on. Slowly, giving Mulder a chance to change his mind.

He didn't. Well, he hadn't really expected it.

But there was something in the way Mulder was watching turn that lightened his mood somewhat; if this had really meant nothing to Mulder, he wouldn't have to use his poker face. It wasn't a good one, either, which made Krycek wonder if the reason Mulder had kept his eyes closed hadn't been to keep Krycek from seeing  _him_ , rather than the reverse.

It would give him something to think about while he was constructing bombs for the Bosnians--or whoever he could get hooked up with--he supposed. If he was really lucky, he'd distract himself enough that he'd blow himself to kingdom come.

"I doubt we'll meet up any time soon, Mulder. I've got to leave the country, and I don't know when I'll be back."

"Don't hurry on my account," Mulder said, but he wouldn't meet Krycek's eyes. At that moment, Krycek would have given his left--his train of thought shifted tracks, away from that little minefield--he'd have given anything to be able to read Mulder's mind. 

He smiled. It felt tight and strange, but it wasn't fake; Mulder had dragged it out of him, the same way Mulder dragged so much out of him that he'd prefer to leave buried.

"If you reconsider my offer to help you deal with the Consortium--"

"I won't."

"If you do, send yourself e-mail about it. I'll see it."

"You read my e-mail?"

He shrugged. "How else can I keep up with what you're doing? You never call, you never write…"  _Damn it, Mulder, you could at least acknowledge that I was making a joke._

"Well, don't bother. I won't reconsider. I'll be glad to see you go."

He shook his head. "Just accept it; you're never going to get rid of me for good. I'm going to

keep turning up for the rest of my life, and when I die, I'll haunt you until you admit that you and I could have made one hell of a team against that chain-smoking son of a bitch.  And don't tell me that you don't believe in ghosts. You're Spooky Mulder. You believe in everything."

"Not quite everything," Mulder said, the unspoken "Not you," hanging in the air between them.

"Not yet." He let himself out.

Maybe he wouldn't go to Europe after all, he thought as he left Mulder's building. There was work in Africa, too, from what he heard, and it'd probably be easier to disappear out there. His only requirement was that he had to be able to hack into Mulder's e-mail on a semi-regular basis, just in case. Beyond that, though, it didn't matter to him one way or the other; after all, he was the cat who walked by himself, and all places were alike to him.

He looked back up at the building, toward the window he knew belonged to Mulder's living room.

All places but one, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> 1999 FanQ award winner. 
> 
> [me on tumblr](https://mireille719.tumblr.com)


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